


Purgatory

by sabby1



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Cold Caning, Dom/sub, Edwardian Period, F/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabby1/pseuds/sabby1
Summary: He’s the tea cup and she’s the granite floor. She will break him as many times as it takes until he’s perfect, and he will leave scratches in her impeccable hard surface every time she does.Or The one where Magnus goes to Camille's sex club for some cold comfort in 1903.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Camille Belcourt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: SHBingo





	Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for Toby's SH Bingo. The square filled was: Sex Club.
> 
> I hope I warned for everything that needed a warning. Everything that happens here is consensual. There's some serious rough and tumble toward the end, but it's enjoyed by both partners. 
> 
> Enjoy. Kudos and comments are welcome.

**London, 1903**

She licks the pad of her French tipped thumb and swipes it over the pointed toe of her tightly laced stiletto boot. The smudge comes off easily. Probably saliva. Possibly semen. Definitely not blood. She cleans her grimy thumb on the back of the human table next to her.

“Lady Camille?”

Her eyes – blue today – follow the timid, feeble voice to a mousy looking mundane girl no older than eighteen, dressed in a French maid uniform that lacks everything except the headpiece, half apron, and stockings.

“Yes?” Camille asks with a timbre of inconsolable ennui that never fails to terrify the submissives. “What is it?”

The girl’s head is bowed, her gaze glued to the floor. Her posture is perfect: perky little breasts on display with her hands folded primly in front of her.

“A guest downstairs has asked to see you, my lady.”

Camille raises a meticulously sculpted brow – black today – and tilts her head to the side in contemplation. She does not expect any more guests tonight. She certainly does not take kindly to unexpected visitors.

She rises from her human bench and crosses the room in a deliberately slow stroll.

“Clean the furniture until I get back.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The maid curtseys and closes the door quietly behind her.

Out in the hallway, Camille takes a moment to check her elaborate Dutch braid updo in one of the portrait mirrors that adorn the empty spaces between the dark wooden doors. Her tresses are as black as her eyebrows, two perfect ringlets framing her face.

From behind one of the doors, the crack of a switch rends the air, followed by a broken moan.

Camille smiles at her reflection and passes a careful fingertip along the luscious burgundy curve of her bottom lip before she descends the stairs.

Her silk skirt makes a satisfying swishing sound as she glides down the steps. The palm of her hand barely grazes the polished wooden banister.

The unexpected arrival is waiting in the narrow marble foyer at the bottom of the stairs.

His eyes are the first thing she notices. They always are. Soft and warm and needy, they beg for any scrap of genuine affection. She loves to see them glaze over with pleasure or pain until it becomes too much and the glamour drops.

His cheekbones are a close second. She has always adored a man with elegant features, and his are so delicious she can never decide what she wants to do first: lick them, bite them, or scratch them. 

His lips are third. Pink and soft, with a sharply defined cupid’s bow, they usually curl in a flirtatious smile that is as fake as it is tempting. Until she makes him scream, or snarl, or struggle to stretch his mouth around any number of her vicious toys.

His shoulders are next. They are broad and strong, but he insists on keeping them slumped, always pretending to be less than he truly is. It drives her up the wall and around the bend. She likes to use hemp ropes to correct that inexcusable lack of posture.

“Magnus Bane,” she rolls his name over her tongue like a sip of her favorite dark rum. “It has been a while.”

He grasps the rim of his derby hat tighter between the fingers of his right hand.

“Camille.”

His voice is like honey. It gets even sweeter when he begs.

She licks her lips and continues to trail her gaze over him. The modern suit does nothing for his broad shoulders and narrow hips. Neither does the shapeless Ulster coat he wears over it. The black-and-white boots with their one-inch heels are an unnecessary affectation.

She narrows her eyes and rubs her tongue against her hard palate to clear the taste of displeasure. Her hands encircle the wasp-like waist of her bodice as she cocks her hip.

“What brings you here?” she asks bluntly.

With Magnus, it is impossible to know until he shares his reason. It could be anything. A legitimate client, a dirty scheme, a favor for the Nephilim. She really hopes it isn’t the latter.

Magnus lowers his gaze to the white floor tiles. His shoulders slump even further. He struggles for words.

Camille feels a tingle of excitement shoot straight up her core and wet her knickers. She dares to hope.

“What do you need?” she purrs. “Tell me.”

Magnus purses his lips and curls his free hand into a fist. “Don’t ask me to say it.”

She wants to jump up and down and clap her hands like a little girl offered her favorite treat, but she resists the urge. Instead, she inhales deeply through her nose, catching a whiff of Indian sandalwood in the air.

“Say it.”

She flicks the tip of her tongue against her top lip and smiles in anticipation.

“Camille.”

This time her name sounds like a desperate plea. She clenches the muscles of her cunt to hold on to the sweet, tingling pleasure.

He’s still hers.

“Say it,” she hisses through her fangs.

“Use me.”

She bites her lip and shimmies her hips. How can she resist when her favorite morsel is asking her to eat him up?

“Follow me,” she purrs and swirls around with a swish of silk. “But first, drop that stupid hat and stomp on it.”

She’s hated bowler hats since their conception. She sucked the culprits dry and dropped their corpses in the Thames for good measure, but, unfortunately, it was already too late by then. The disease had spread beyond containment.

Camille doesn’t turn around, but she waits halfway up the stairs to hear the satisfying pop of a black-and-white boot crushing the pressed felt of a derby underfoot.

She clenches her cunt again and bites down on a giddy little whimper.

“You’re lucky there is still a free room tonight,” she says casually as she ascends the rest of the way to the next floor. “It has been very busy lately.”

Camille truly loves the Brits. Their extreme repression makes them so deliciously perverted behind closed doors. The money has been rolling in from the day she opened her little private club and she doesn’t even need to advertise much.

A discreet notice in the Times once every other month and the rest is word of mouth. The number of filthy mouths that kiss and tell all over London is stunning.

She takes Magnus to the only free room in the house tonight, the suite that hardly anyone can afford. It has seen more than its fair share of royalty and notoriety over the past few years. Camille wonders what the current Duke of Sussex would think if he knew he shared a saltire cross with Oscar Wilde.

She suppresses a giggle and turns to look at Magnus who is hovering just past the threshold.

“Come in and close the door,” she says, raising her hand to beckon him closer.

He complies with a quiet air of resignation. His head is still bowed. His shoulders are slumped. Everything about him is drooping and defeated.

That will simply not do. No one but her has the right.

Her smile freezes as she braces her hands on her waist and drums her fingers against the stiff bones of her bodice.

First things first, they need to get rid of those unflattering clothes. They might be the latest fashion, but they only serve to hide every aspect of his body that is strong and gorgeous and alluring.

“Take off your clothes.”

She wants to tell him to throw them into the fire roaring below the elaborate oak mantel, but she knows better. 

“You may place them on the stool by the vanity.”

Camille watches him take off his Ulster coat and lay it over the plush cushion of the seat. The shapeless jacket follows suit. His motions are deliberate and void of seduction.

She clicks her tongue.

“You’re not undressing to retire to bed,” she scolds. “You are here to please me. Act accordingly or suffer the consequences.”

His breath hitches. He pauses with his hand on the buttons of his waistcoat.

Camille raises her chin and waits.

The first smoldering gaze from under long black lashes makes her want to sink her fangs into his neck and drink until his eyes roll back.

She relishes the urge and allows the hunger to roll through her while Magnus pops the shiny silver buttons through their holes and slides the gray waistcoat down his shoulders.

His fingers are strong and elegant. They were skilled at weaving magic before he ever met her, but she has taught them how to curl and twist to coax pleasure from even the most reluctant flesh – male or female.

Camille watches those same fingers glide down the row of mother-of-pearl buttons that hide his delectable chest behind the boring confines of a simple white dress shirt.

She bites her bottom lip to fight a smile as Magnus takes his time, revealing smooth skin and firm muscle one inch after another.

His complexion is a warm shade of tan that she has struggled to describe properly for as long as she’s adored it. She has found no matching pigment in any food, beverage, or material she has ever seen, and she has seen plenty in her extensive travels around the world.

The native people in the far reaches of Norway have one hundred and eighty distinct terms for snow. Camille has always thought there should be at least as many terms for shades of human skin – and that’s before you add all the lovely alterations created by praise or punishment.

Magnus bruises easily. His skin stains in the ripest shades of peach and plum and crushed cherries when she breaks it. Just the memory of it has Camille soaking wet and tingling with excitement as she watches him bend over to remove his slacks.

She raises one hand to her mouth, touches the pad of her forefinger to the tip of her tongue, and fails to recall the exact taste of his cheeks after a stinging slap. She will have to remind herself.

When Magnus stands before her naked as the day he was born, she takes a moment to enjoy the view. He has always been one of her most exquisite lovers. Owing to his demonic pedigree, he forever will be.

She trails her gaze downward, past the well-defined muscles of his smooth abdomen, and allows it to rest heavily at the center of the v created by the creases of his hips. Neatly groomed and delectable as ever, he still has one of the prettiest pricks and the most sensitive set of balls she’s ever had the pleasure of torturing.

Really, she would send Asmodeus a plethora of lavish gifts in gratitude if anyone delivered to Edom.

Camille removes her finger from her mouth, crooks it in a come hither, and points at the hardwood floor in front of her stiletto boots.

“Kneel.”

Magnus comes to her and sinks down onto the hard-oak slats without hesitation or complaint.

His self-esteem may struggle, but his body certainly remembers the posture she demands of him. He rests his weight on his heels and spreads his knees, shoulders squared, back straight, hands flat atop his thighs. His head is bowed demurely.

She sneers. Demure is appropriate for little mundane mousy maids, not for the son of a fallen angel.

“I notice you failed to retain the good posture I have taught you.”

She circles around him to move to the dresser that contains most of the smaller accoutrements. The drawer slides out easily, revealing a fair number of neatly bundled ropes. Each of them has a different length, a different color, a different coarseness to their braided strands.

She picks the blood-red hank of tightly braided hemp that is about a quarter inch thick and thirty feet long. It will suffice for her current purpose.

Camille lets the loose ends clack on the hardwood floor as she forms the first knot.

She steps back in front of Magnus and drops the noose around his neck. The corset under her bodice makes it a struggle to bend over at the hip but she manages. A gentle touch from the tip of her forefinger coaxes his chin up until he faces straight ahead.

She coils the rope around his upper arms, and draws it tight against his chest, makes a few passes front to back and through the noose at the nape of his neck. It takes some minutes, but when her work is finished, his arms are pinned tightly against his sides and his shoulders couldn’t slump if his life depended on it. The sling around his neck encourages him to keep his head up.

“That’s better.”

His black hair is styled in the latest fashion. When she slides her fingers through it, they come away filthy with oil. Her approving caress has turned into a source of displeasure.

“Really, Magnus?”

She leaves him again, this time to cross to the far corner of the room where a tall wash stand holds a large basin and a full pitcher. She pours just enough water into the shallow porcelain bowl to cover the bottom and wet the soap powder. Once her fingers are clean, she dries them on a soft white towel.

Camille brings the pitcher and towel with her when she returns to Magnus. She relishes the fact that his back is turned and he is ignorant of his approaching fate. She raises the pitcher in one hand, her arm extended at her side, and steps up next to him right as she tips it over.

He gasps and sputters and shakes as the tepid water cascades over his head, no room for artifice amidst the shock. It drenches his body and splashes onto the floor, soaking the oaken slats he kneels on.

After she sets the pitcher aside, Camille drops the towel over his head and rubs vigorously, tearing at his silky tresses to remove every last shred of the abominable hair product. While she enjoys drenching her fingers in oil and using them on Magnus, this is not the type of oil she wants nor is it where she wants it.

He bears her ministrations in stoic silence and keeps his body perfectly still despite her persistent attempts to jostle him.

Camille is proud and vexed and wetter than springtime in Northern England.

“That’s three times you’ve displeased me now.”

She drops the towel on the floor and tangles her fingers in his hair. It’s soft as down feathers and free of grease, and he exhales the most charming involuntary grunt when she tightens her grip and pulls his head back. 

Beads of water still cling to his lashes and his gaze is glassy and needy. A subtle hint of peach begins to stain his gorgeous cheekbones.

Camille allows herself the tiniest noise of delight and flicks the tip of her tongue across the right one before she takes a bite. Just a light nip with human teeth. It tastes of salty skin and blossoming rage sweet as spun sugar.

“Say you’re sorry,” she murmurs in his ear.

Delicious heat radiates against her cold skin as more blood rushes to his face. Magnus doesn’t like to apologize.

Camille hopes he’ll defy her. She really, really wants him to put up a fight. She starts to count inside her head and squeezes her cunt around the thrill that grows stronger with every second that passes in silence.

Pressed cheek to cheek, she feels him open his mouth and take a breath.

“Too late,” she declares and stands up straight, leaving one hand tangled in his hair. “Come along, now.”

He stumbles awkwardly onto his feet and follows at her heels in a comical lurch, forced to stoop beneath the cruel grip of her fingers. He doesn’t even try to buck her off.

Teeth gnashed in irritation, she leads him to the tea table set and bends him over the glossy mahogany surface of the round table. It’s the perfect height, once she has nudged him into position, barely on his toes with his legs spread wide and his whole weight distributed to his upper body resting on the tabletop.

Camille takes her time with arranging his family jewels so they hang comfortably an inch or so away from the edge of the table. She gives his balls a gentle squeeze and smiles at the jolt that rocks through him.

Then she straightens up with her hands on her waist and reviews her handiwork.

Magnus is exquisite to behold. The long lines of firm muscle in his legs are stretched out on display from his slim ankles all the way up to those delicious round buttocks.

Camille feels her fangs start to slip from their sheaths. She sucks them back in and continues her perusal.

His back is a perfectly shaped canvas. She could spend hours covering it in all the lovely shades and shapes of pain and pleasure she has at her disposal. The blood-red braids of hemp that circle his biceps, stretch across his shoulder blades, and rise up along his spine to the nape of his neck are an acceptable start.

Magnus has kept his head straight, resting his forehead on the table. That will leave an unpleasant red mark where Camille doesn’t want it.

A solution quickly springs to mind. She shimmies out of her bloomers and folds them up into a soft, silky pillow, making sure that the area soaked with her desire ends up centered and on top.

She combs her fingers through his hair and pulls his head up, slipping the decadent pillow into position. A forceful press of her fingers against the strong line of his jaw turns his face to the side before she lays his head back down.

The moment his nose touches the fabric, his eyes widen and his mouth falls open.

“Deep breaths, my love,” she purrs. “You’re going to need your strength.”

Camille leaves Magnus to contemplate his fate while she crosses back to the accoutrement dresser. A different drawer glides open with the soft rasp of wooden shafts sliding through their matching grooves.

Her eyes caress the plethora of toys and tools before her. Clamps, and paddles, and dilators, oh my. Camille picks up the ornately engraved ebony box that holds one of her favorites: a gift from the Chinese ambassador on his most recent visit. She can hardly wait to introduce it to Magnus.

She stops by the vanity on her way back to the tea table. The number of jars has increased over the past few years. She toys around with several of them, picking them up and setting them back down with enough force that the noise will reach Magnus’s ears and pique his anticipation.

The jar she wants is tall and blue with a twist-off lid. It is filled with a specially blended oil crafted by a warlock who owes her the kind of debt that can never be fully repaid.

She picks it up from between the myriad other lotions and ointments, cradles her chosen treasures in her arms, and returns to the tea table at a leisurely pace.

Magnus is still in his previous position, bent over the table with his nose buried in her knickers. His eyes are closed, and his prick is slowly filling with blood, growing hard under her watchful gaze.

Camille sets the jar of oil and the ebony box on the table right in front of his face. The small golden hinge makes a squeaky noise as she flips it up to open the lid of the box.

“This was a gift from the Chinese ambassador,” she says. “He called it a personal companion.”

She giggles, looking at the beautifully carved ivory toy nestled in a bed of scarlet silk lining. It is six inches long and two inches wide at the thickest part, tapering down to a rounded point at the tip. The base narrows to a thin circle before it flares into a bar about two inches long and a quarter inch wide.

“Don’t you want to see it?”

He opens his eyes, still glamoured, and rests them fleetingly on the ivory anal dilator before he closes them again.

“That’s all right,” she assures him. “Looking at it is barely half the pleasure.”

Camille unscrews the lid from the blue jar and dips her fingers into the viscous oil inside.

She pulls out the toy with her unsoiled hand and spreads a generous amount of the slippery liquid over the smooth ivory surface until it is completely covered.

“Deep breaths,” she reminds him as she pushes the narrow tip against the tightly furled skin around his pretty little asshole.

Magnus sucks in a breath through his nose. His muscles fight the intrusion at first, but, after a few seconds, he accepts the narrow tip easily enough. He’s always taken what she dishes out with more grace than she deserves.

Camille doesn’t bother to stifle her moan of pleasure.

“So damned beautiful.”

She works the tapered cone slowly in and out of his hole, captivated by the view. Her human teeth dig into the skin below her bottom lip. She wants to tear him open until he screams. Instead, she teases him by inches, never quite giving him what her motions promise.

His hips shimmy, and he pushes back onto the toy until it is buried to the hilt, the thin bar at the base nestled between his delicious firm cheeks.

It’s the perfect excuse.

She slaps one hand across his left buttock, taking pleasure in the way it makes him tighten up. The sound is pure bliss. A clear, reverberating crack that echoes off the plaster walls and fills the room.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to squirm.”

His motions cease immediately.

It makes her pout and firms her resolve. She pulls out the plug and starts to fuck him with it, slowly, watching gleefully as every muscle from his back to his toes tenses up in his effort to hold still. His hands are clenched into tight fists beside his hips. It won’t be much longer now.

“Feel free to make as much noise as you want,” she teases.

His stifled grunt in response to her next thrust makes her gush between her legs. She fucks him more vigorously just to see what other sounds she can punch out of him.

Magnus grows harder with every deep, deliberate thrust of the smooth ivory toy. His balls draw tight. His stifled, broken moans make her clench her dripping cunt and shiver with desire.

She leans over him and nips the delicate lobe of his ear between her teeth before she rumbles into it, “If you spill your seed without my permission, I will cane you until you bleed.”

His pretty prick twitches as goosebumps pucker his unblemished skin, crawling up from the small of his back to the carmine ropes that bind him.

Demon blood thrives on violence and pain.

Camille smiles with satisfaction. “That reminds me.”

She pushes the toy all the way in and steps away from the table.

Magnus bites back a groan and clenches his ass in the most tempting way, but he doesn’t beg or complain.

The ornately carved walnut armoire next to the saltire cross has full length mirrors set into both of its wide doors. Behind her own reflection, Camille can see Magnus bent over the table. Envy bolts through her at the gorgeous flush that stains his beautiful complexion. Her own skin is as ashen and dull as it’s been for too many centuries.

She throws the doors open and passes her gaze over the torture implements inside. Floggers, whips, and switching canes hang from burnished bronze hooks nailed to a bed of red felt.

A few deliberate deep breaths transform her irrational fury into a controllable urge to inflict pain as she glides her fingertips across wood and metal, leather and bone.

Camille chooses with a soft brush of her knuckles down the length of gleaming burnt-orange wood. She takes a firm grip of the smooth barrel-shaped handle and lifts the reed-thin willow cane from its hook.

The doors stay open when she walks away.

Her heels click on the hardwood until they catch on something soft and squishy. The towel and pitcher are still on the floor where she left them. Camille clicks her tongue at herself, picks them up, and returns them to their proper place on the wash stand.

Magnus hasn’t moved a muscle since she stepped away from him. His pretty prick is still hard, but his balls are no longer drawn up tight in preparation to spill his seed all over the floor.

When she returns to the tea table, Camille grazes her fingernails down the curve of his left buttock and back up the right one, giggling when he clenches around the plug and bites down on a ragged moan.

“Five strokes,” she tells him lightly, continuing to run her fingernails over his gorgeous derrière. “One for each time you’ve displeased me tonight, and an additional one to encourage improvement.”

His brows furrow over his closed eyes. His shoulders tense inside their tight restraints, and he makes a noise as if he is going to question her. Magnus clearly arrived at a different number after tallying his offenses.

She clicks her tongue again and shakes her head.

“I will gladly recite your transgressions while you take your punishment.” She uses the tip of the flexible willow cane to tickle his nose. “Kiss.”

He barely moves his head, shifting just far enough on the cushion of her knickers to brush his parted lips against the shaft of the switch. His tongue darts out and flicks the tip.

Camille closes her eyes and counts to ten inside her head. It takes until the count of eight before her fangs slip back into their sheaths.

The switch parts the air at a flick of her wrist. It strikes across both buttocks in a perfect horizontal line with a resounding snap and a startled yelp from Magnus.

“One,” she says, keeping the slim shaft pressed against his skin, pushing down on the base of the toy inside him. “You failed to seduce me properly when you started to disrobe.”

He smothers another noise as the second wave of sensation from the first strike rolls through him.

Camille waits a few moments longer before she lifts the switch and trails her gaze over the thin red welt imprinted on his skin. The shape and color are exquisite.

She extends her elbow for the second strike, aimed a finger’s width below the first.

It impacts with a louder snap and evokes a much more full-bodied grunt. Magnus barely manages to keep the sound trapped behind his tightly pressed lips this time.

A shiver rolls through her. She rubs her thighs together.

“Two,” she says, holding the cane in place through both waves of pain. “You failed to retain proper posture.”

She clenches her cunt at the sight of the second brightly colored welt and shimmies a little.

The third strike lands just below the first two. She’s getting closer to his family jewels. While she’s getting wetter, his arousal is flagging.

“Three,” she says, resting the cane again. “You soiled my hand with that abominable muck in your hair.”

Magnus sucks in sharp breaths through his nose and clenches his jaw behind tightly pressed lips, resisting the bait.

“Four.”

She swings out her arm all the way to the shoulder and snaps the cane down hard.

He barks out a scream.

She deliberately pauses longer than before. Refuses to tell him the reason until she has watched the second wave roll through him. Until he’s stopped shivering and the goosebumps have settled own.

Only then does she comb her fingers through his hair and bend over his back. She moves her mouth close to his ear, making sure he hears what she has to say.

“You still deny yourself.”

She flicks the tip of her tongue over his cheek right next to his ear and stands up straight.

Nothing could make her count his refusal to apologize as an offense. She would never punish him for giving her exactly what she wants.

“One more,” she growls, “so you’ll remember to do better.”

She takes a deep breath, swings her arm out, and brings the switch down with as much power as she has in her.

The crack reverberates off the walls. It makes her juices gush between her legs.

It breaks his skin and makes him scream.

Blood wells up rich and thick like crushed cherries.

She succumbs with an uncontrolled moan and laps up the precious drops with the tip of her tongue. Her fangs drop at the taste and she doesn’t fight the urge. She sinks them into the firm curve of his beautiful ass and savors the meager mouthful of blood it yields.

Where angel blood is sweet and potent like port wine, the taste of a fallen is pure opium filling her mouth and crawling through her veins.

Magnus still keeps his eyes squeezed shut. Every muscle in his body is tense, straining against the need to move.

Camille forces herself to pull back and slips her fangs back into their sheaths. It’s more difficult than it should be.

She laps at the soft skin one last time to close the wound, gives the cheek a playful kiss, and stands up straight with a heavy sigh.

“You are too delicious for your own good, my love.”

She sets the switch down on the table and brushes her fingertips over the damaged skin.

His derrière is marked as hers with five peach red welts and two plum colored puncture marks on his left buttock.

Magnus twitches and swallows another involuntary noise down his throat.

“Now, come,” she says, yanking him up by the ropes across his back. “Sit down, let’s have a little chat.”

She kicks out one of the stiff, high backed chairs by its sturdy legs and forces Magnus into the upholstered seat.

His eyes flare with pain the instant his weight drops onto the welts and drives the plug lodged inside him deeper.

Camille smiles as she raises her skirt, straddles his legs, and makes herself comfortable on his lap. She shimmies forward until she can feel his soft prick and sensitive balls nudge up against her wet cunt. Then she grinds down for good measure.

Magnus stifles a grunt and grits his teeth so hard that the muscle in his cheek twitches.

She trails her fingers across the line of his jaw with a satisfied purr.

He’s struggling for control, and she will push until he loses it.

“Who brought you to my door today, love?” She cocks her head to the side, leans in, and brushes her lips over the shell of his ear. “Who deserves the credit for this?”

Perhaps Asmodeus will receive his thank you gift after all.

Magnus doesn’t answer. His cheek burns hot against hers, and she can feel the shift when he clenches his teeth.

She moves back, leans to the side and stretches out her left arm, giggling at his suppressed grunt of discomfort. His stifled noises continue, punctuated by heavy breaths, while she pulls the jar of oil close to the edge of the table. 

“You don’t want to tell me?” she asks sweetly.

He turns his head and evades her gaze, staring at the floor somewhere behind her. His hands are still curled into tight fists at his sides. The muscles of his upper arms strain against their bonds.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly.

Camille giggles. She gyrates her hips once and shifts backward until she’s almost sitting on his knees.

She reaches across with her right hand, dips four fingers into the blue jar, and pulls them out with her fingertips coated in the clear, tacky oil.

“If it doesn’t matter, why keep it a secret?”

His pretty prick is still soft, curled atop his balls inside a neatly groomed nest of coarse black hair.

She wraps her fingers around the velvety length and gives it a few gentle strokes, spreading the oil. Her gaze stays on his face as she pulls back the foreskin and swipes the pad of her thumb across the mushroom shaped tip before she slides the side of her thumb up the center, gently rubbing along the slit. She increases the pressure with each slow slide.

“Will Herondale.”

Scum sucking Nephilim. She should have known.

She ends the torture with a gentle swipe across the crown and shifts to slow, steady strokes from the loosely curled circle of her fist.

Magnus gives his heart away all too easily, and the thrice damn feather fuckers love to take advantage of that weakness.

She remembers that unpleasant truth from the time it was shoved in her face twenty-five years ago. It was why she broke up with him.

Camille doesn’t do love. Love makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability gets you killed. She plans to live forever.

If she did, though, have any inclination toward that weakness… but she doesn’t.

She won’t go after Will Herondale. She won’t send him to Edom, no matter how much she wants to. Messing with the Nephilim is a dumb idea, and her instinct of self-preservation is stronger than her desire for revenge.

She makes a humming noise in her throat and keeps massaging Magnus’s pretty prick. She enjoys the feeling of his flesh hardening inside her grip.

Camille licks another stripe across his blushing cheek and whispers in his ear.

“Let him rot.”

Her fangs drop and she doesn’t bother to fight it. She sinks them into the side of his neck and swallows a mouthful of pure opium down her throat. Her hand speeds up its movements.

His broken moan is a thing of beauty.

She rises up and sinks down on his length in one smooth motion, burying him inside her as deep as he will go, and cherishes the awestruck expression on his face. Neither of them is capable of closing their eyes.

Her cunt is cold, but it is wet, and it is tight, and it will warm quickly enough with borrowed heat and a single magic word.

She keeps her gaze glued to his for as long as she is able to as she leans forward to whisper in his ear. 

“Ignesco!”

She barely has time to lean back before the spell mixed into the oil takes effect.

While her eyes tighten against the urge to close, his eyes squeeze shut and he starts to shake.

“Fuck!”

“How does it feel?” she purrs, well aware of the answer as all her muscles seize and tighten around him at the sensation. 

“It burns.”

She hums in her throat and swipes her thumb over his brow, wiping away a bead of sweat. The taste of salt and addiction bursts on her tongue when she licks it off.

“You can do better than that.”

His eyes are hooded, and they burn with more than the agony she’s causing them both.

“It feels like tongues of flame licking up my ass and sucking on my cock.”

She giggles low in her throat and squeezes tighter around him. It sets her insides on fire, sending flames rushing up through her chest.

“Hm, and do you like it?”

“You know I do.”

She hates that he averts his gaze when he says it. She wants him to look at her. She starts to move. Slowly, deliberately, like forcing a horse yearning to gallop to stay at a slow and steady canter.

“Do you want more?”

His eyes squeeze shut again and his brows furrow tightly over his nose. More sweat beads on his forehead.

“Oh, fuck. Camille.”

She cradles his face in both hands and brushes her thumbs over his cheekbones, just below the stark black curves of his lashes.

“Open them.”

He does, and his irises glow in swirling shades of gold around the pitch-black slivers of his pupils. 

“There you are.”

For as long as Magnus’s other lovers recoil with fear and revulsion at the sight of his true eyes, he will always be hers for the simple reason that she adores them and everything they signify: the power, the heritage, the promise of forever.

She smiles and leans forward, bringing her lips as close as they can get to his mouth without touching it.

“Now, let’s see if you remember,” she breathes against his lips. “If there is something that we want, what do we do?”

The corners of his mouth slowly curl upward. His smile is a wicked beauty, making filthy promises.

“We take it.”

The snap of his fingers explodes in the silence. A rush of magic blasts her like a sharp gust of wind. The ropes drop between them. She has no time to react before she’s the one restrained in the callous hold of his arms.

She’s not ready to give in so easily. A grin breaks out on her face as she struggles in his grip, squirms and kicks until she’s pushed herself free enough to scramble away on her hands and knees.

She doesn’t get far before strong fingers dig into her hips and pull her back, scraping her arms and knees against the hard-oak slats. She revels in the sting of it, can’t wait to see the bruises mark her ashen skin, for as short as they will last.

Her skirts fly up over her head and she has less than a second before she feels long, hard fingers penetrate her where she didn’t expect it.

His weight rests on her back, hot and heavy, bearing her down against the wood. His breath on her neck sends shivers down her spine.

“Let’s see how you take to a personal companion, shall we?”

She bites through her lip to stifle a giggle and then a scream when a ruthless third finger joins the two that came before it.

Demons don’t make love. They make sweet, bloody violence.

Afterward, they are curled up on the thick, downy mattress of the four-poster bed that rarely sees any use inside this room. She is propped up in a mountain of pillows against the headboard, and he’s sprawled face-down across her legs with his head in her lap.

Her fingers slide idly through his silky hair while he naps. Her eyes trail over his beautiful skin, stained with the ripest shades of peach and plum and the remnants of crushed cherries.

The marks on her own pale skin have already started to fade. Even the deepest ones will be nearly invisible come morning.

Her lips purse with an involuntary moue, but she quickly smooths her expression when she feels him stir in her lap.

“We never took the time for a proper hello,” she comments lightly.

He makes a grumbling noise that doesn’t commit to anything as he turns around and blinks up at her. His true eyes are still on display.

“Welcome to Purgatory, my love,” she drawls. “Won’t you stay a while?”

It takes a moment for his smile to reach those lovely demon eyes, but when it does, it’s a breathtaking thing of wicked beauty.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He’s still hers.

He’s the tea cup and she’s the granite floor. She will break him as many times as it takes until he’s perfect, and he will leave scratches in her impeccable hard surface every time she does.


End file.
